One Hundred Songs, And They're About You
by UndergroundValentine
Summary: A challenge to write one hundred different stories for one hundred different songs. Rated M for language, adult content, violence, romance, hurt, etc.
1. 45, Shinedown

So, I decided to take the challenge. I know, I'm a little crazy to do it, but hey, it's fun. :P I hope you enjoy the ride, 3

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"45 – Shinedown"**

_Send away for a priceless gift_

_One not subtle, one not on the list_

_Send away for a perfect world_

He's sitting on the edge of the bathtub in the condo, the door is closed. It's dark outside, he knows, but he doesn't know the time. He's alone, and it's quiet with the exception of his occasional intake of breath. He's dressed in an unbuttoned black shirt, a dark blue wife-beater beneath it. Black skinny jeans cling to his hips with the help of a studded black belt. His creepers are strapped to his legs. He's not sure why he's still dressed, but then again he doesn't really care. It's not going to matter here in a few minutes. At least, that's what he tells himself over and over, because he's still having doubts about this.

He looks down into his hands, seeing two objects. One that means to the world to him. One that he was given. He stares at it through blurring eyes, the gleaming silver plated guitar pick on a sterling silver chain. The engraved name that his baby had given him is still as smooth as the day he got it. _Glitterbaby_. A tear slips and falls down his face, splashing against his hand that holds the other object. The one that is warm in his grasp, but for a different reason. A deadly reason.

_One not simply, so absurd_

_In these times of doing what you're told_

_Keep these feelings, no one knows_

He's spent the last month telling everyone that he loves them and that yes, he's fine, he's just tired. He's spent the last month lying to them because inside, he just wanted to disappear. But why? He's a talented musician, he's in a successful band with the lead singer being a fucking icon all over the world, perhaps even the universe. What reason does he have to want that to just vanish like a cloud of smoke? What reason does he have to want to be forgotten?

Part of it's that he's tired. He's been so tired lately. Unwilling to do anything. Unwilling to go places because he's tired of being told what to do, how to dress, where to go and what to say. True, fame and fortune is a blissful thing, but the downside is that you're, effectively, the media's bitch. They make the calls and pull your strings and all you can do is comply and put an airbrushed smile on your face as they suck out your soul through pictures and lame interviews, see? He's tired of it.

_What ever happened _

_To the young man's heart_

_Swallowed by pain_

_As he slowly fell apart_

He stares down at the necklace in his hand again, feeling yet another crystal tear rolling down his cheek. His baby gave this to him at a show. A show in California; Fantasy Springs. God, that was a good show. He can still remember is clearly— the dancing, the singing, the rocking out, the way his baby pulled his hair just right, and how he went crazy from it. He did all he could to keep himself from setting his bass down and just attacking his baby on that stage and just fucking him senseless.

But that's long passed now. That's just another distant memory from a winter with sunshine and glitter. The closer he got to his baby, the more he fell. And when he hit the bottom of love, he was ready to face anything. He could take down the media, the paparazzi, the Catholic mothers trying to pour down their throats that they were sinners. He was ready to face it all, and yet he was afraid. He was afraid that maybe, just maybe… This was all for show to his baby. That this was all a lie to hear the delighted screams show after show. And in that fear, he spiraled away.

_And I'm staring down the barrel of a forty-five_

_I'm swimming through the ashes of another life_

_There's no real reason to accept _

_The way things have changed_

_Staring down the barrel of a forty-five_

He shifts his gaze to the second object again, his thumb reaching over and hitting the safety, flicking it off. How embarrassing would that be, to be ready and then find the safety's on, and then have fear all over again? Haha. No, he knows better. Sure, his hands are shaking and his heart is pounding and he can hear his baby's voice in his ear, telling him to stop, but he's ready. The endless nights of lying awake and being so fucking _afraid_ have left him tired. And when he's tired, there's a little voice on his shoulder that whispers such awful things to him. Like his baby doesn't really love him. His baby's just getting attention from the fans with all the touching, the hair pulling, and that the sex is just his way to release that pent up energy. That it doesn't _mean _anything.

He twists the necklace chain tighter around his fingers, the silver plated pick pressing hard into the palm of his hand. He knows the etching is being imprinted into his palm. He can feel it. The curves of the gee and the edges of the tee's. He presses it harder into his hand, hoping that maybe his hand will twitch and one of those edges will cut his hand. But he doubts that it's going to happen. He raises the object higher, staring at it for a moment before pressing the barrel to his temple, closing his eyes. He sees his baby's face, and more tears roll down his cheeks.

_Send a message to the unborn child_

_Keep your eyes open for a while_

_In a box high up on the shelf_

He's driving down through L.A., heading for Hollywood. His heart is pounding furiously in his chest and he's shaking from head to toe. He hopes to God that by pushing eighty miles per hour at two in the morning he's going to make it on time. He's thinking a million things at once and he's coming to the same question every time: why couldn't his baby just _talk_ to him? His heart swells as he thinks of all the times that he'd touch his Glitterbaby, and the blond would smile warmly. But he could always see that the warmth didn't reach those beautiful brown eyes.

No… His baby's eyes were vacant half the time. And just last month, the vacancy was getting worse. He swallows hard, making a sharp turn and heading down another street. A shortcut, because he can see up ahead that there are a lot of people blocking the streets. Fucking club goers. Don't they understand that he's trying to get home? That he's trying to get to his baby before it's too late? Apparently not.

_Left for you, no one else_

_There's a piece of a puzzle known as life_

_Wrapped in guilt, sealed up tight_

Another sharp turn, and he's heading south-west. He's gotta make it there on time. Otherwise… God, he doesn't want to think about it right now. He really, really doesn't want to. He can feel the weight of the note in his back pocket. The ink's bleeding through and soaking through his clothes, seeping into his skin and making his blood thick. Fear. Anxiety. Grief. He blinks back the tears that well up in his eyes and his mind is swirling those five words that are making him shake so badly…

_I'm sorry. I love you_.

God, Tommy… He… His baby can't… Another sharp turn, and he's rolling down the street. He's not sure when he's going to see the comfort of the giant block letters sitting up top on a hill, the lights making their white paint gleam. But he's hoping that it's soon, because this is killing him. What is he going to do if he goes home and finds that he's too— no. He'll make it. He has to make it. He has to pull Tommy into his arms and tell him that he loves him. He has to.

_What ever happened _

_To the young man's heart_

_Swallowed by pain_

_As he slowly fell apart_

How long has he been avoiding it? How long has he been ignoring the pain in Tommy's eyes? He loves his Glitterbaby, he loves him more than life itself. So why was he ignoring it? Was it because he wasn't sure how to deal with it. Was it because he was afraid that something was going to happen between them? Fucking hell! This is happening right now, and it's all his fault. If he… If he loses Tommy… Fuck, he can't think like that now. Not with the tears rolling down his face and the L.A. streets dark.

"Fuck, Tommy, you'd better be alive when I get there…" He tells himself, swerving in and out between the few random cars on the streets, uncaring that they're all blasting their horns and swearing at them. He doesn't hear it. He only hears the beating of his own heart quickening in his ears as he finally sees those block letters. So close to home. He can make it, he knows that he can.

_And I'm staring down the barrel of a forty-five_

_I'm swimming through the ashes of another life_

_There's no real reason to accept _

_The way things have changed_

_Staring down the barrel of a forty-five_

He shakes his head and lowers the gun from his temple, shaking and breathing hard. He… he can't do this. There's something in him that's telling him not to. To just wait, wait five more minutes. And then he can decide whether or not he really wants to. He inhales shakily, the full breath not quite reaching his lungs. He has to breathe more than once, and that causes his anxiety to rise. Fuck, he's not sure if he can do this…

'_He doesn't really love you… All those touches, those kisses… It's nothing to him_.' He squeezes his eyes shut, whimpering. God, he could really use a drink right now. But he doesn't want to leave the bathroom. It's the one place that doesn't force reminders of his baby into his face and down his throat. Sure… Adam's makeup bag is on the counter by the sink, and it smells like Adam in here, but there's no clothes, there's no bed… That's what he's avoiding the most right now.

He swallows, shakily putting the gun back to his head, his finger on the trigger. The tiny, devilled voice is whispering in his ear… '_He doesn't love you. He won't miss you. You'll be free from this fear and this pain… Just do it._'

_Everyone's pointing their fingers_

_Always condemning me_

He pulls on the wheel hard, the car swerving up to the sidewalk by the condo. He's breathing hard as he practically kicks the door open leaving the car running and available to be taken as he runs to the doors, pulling them open and climbing the stairs three at a time. He doesn't have patience for the elevator. And right now he doesn't care that he and Tommy live on the eighth floor. He can make it. He's pushing himself hard enough to make it.

Five floors up, he's getting tired and he's out of breath, but he keeps running up the stairs, sweat forming in the roots of his hair, his hands shaking as he grips the rail to pull himself up another flight. Six. God, he's so close. He's hoping he's gonna make it. He has to make it. For his baby. For himself. God, what's he going to do if he finds Tommy… Seven.

_And nobody knows what I believe_

_I believe_

Tears roll down his face as he stares at the bathroom door, his hand shaking, the barrel of the gun cold to his skin. He chokes on a sob, pressing the necklace deeper into his palm. He glances down, seeing a bead pooling between his fingertips, staining them red. Looks like he gets what he wants after all. He's bleeding around the necklace. Funny. It doesn't look nearly as pretty as he imagined that it would have.

"Adam…" He whispers to himself. "I love you…"

_And I'm staring down the barrel of a forty-five_

_I'm swimming through the ashes of another life_

Eight! Fucking finally. He pulls open the door from the stairwell, rushing inside and down the hall, uncaring of the sound his boots makes as he runs passed doors that don't belong to him. He's breathing hard, pumping his arms at his sides as he turns left, running down the hall. He's the last door at the end, straight ahead. Fuck, this hallway feels like it's stretching on for forever and a half, and he's on the verge of tears when he grips the handle, turning it and throwing himself into the condo. The unfortunate part is that there are seven different rooms in this place. Not much, but he's running out of time.

"Tommy? Tommy, where are you?" He shouts, not seeing his baby in the living room or the dining room. He knows Tommy's not in the kitchen, he would have see Tommy's shadow on the floor. He rushes to his left, shoving open the first floor bathroom. No Tommy. He kicks open the spare bedroom. Still no Tommy. Fuck!

_There's no real reason to accept _

_The way things have changed_

"Glitterbaby!" Adam screams, climbing the stairs to the loft-y area of the second floor. He has two options. The bedroom to his right and the bathroom to his left. He turns right, running to the bedroom and stumbling inside. Tommy's nowhere to be seen. He checks both sides of the bed and by the dresser. Nothing. He turns rushing to the doorway. One last room. One last place. He's confident… until he hears it.

A gun shot, rippling from the bathroom that's just twenty feet from him. He feels his knees shake and he stumbles forward again, crashing against the bathroom door and shakily turning the knob. Maybe… Maybe there's still time. Maybe it's just… It's just his imagination. He didn't hear it. He's going to go in there and find Tommy fine and well, and he's going to embrace his Glitterbaby and tell him over and over that he loves him.

The door is shoved open and Adam stops, staring with wide eyes. No… He— Tommy… His Glitterbaby, _his Glitter Baby_. He tries to grab onto the door, the sink, anything, but he fumbles and nothing and falls to his knees, staring. Tommy… No, Tommy, Tommy!

All he can clearly see is the blood, and how beautiful Tommy looks dressed like that. Fuck, he looks as if he's sleeping. His eyes are closed and his face is so relaxed and Adam can't suppress the agonized scream that's ripped from his throat as he reaches out, touching his baby's face. Glitterbaby's still warm and soft to the touch. The gun lies inches from his right hand, his left wrapped with a chain. Adam uncurls Tommy's hand, finding the silver plated guitar pick stained with blood, the etching cut into his palm.

"Tommy…" He chokes, shaking with sobs as he rocks back and leans against the bathroom wall, pulling his baby into his arms. Tommy's head rolls, and his face is buried into Adam's neck. The singer chokes again, sobbing and shaking. His baby… He was too late…

_Staring down the barrel of a forty-five…_


	2. Master And Servant, Depeche Mode

**64. Master And Servant – Depeche Mode**

Adam's always been a good friend to Cassidy. Always; the two were as close as could be without be overtly sexual with one another (sorry, but they're not _always_ into the whole "friends with benefits" sort of thing). But that doesn't mean they don't fool around from time to time, no. They do that. They kiss. They touch. Hell, they've fucked, yeah. But that's usually when they're drunk. Or stoned. Or both, perhaps, but the last time that happened, Cassidy remembers waking up the next morning with scratches on his thighs and chaffed rings of red around his wrists from potential handcuffs. The unfortunate thing is that he doesn't remember the night before, the good things to cause this pain.

Sucks, huh?

But he and Adam are best friends. Been so for several years. Cassidy's always been Adam's designer and supplier for clothes. In return? Adam's been a great friend in the music industry. Well, he's a great friend _in general_, but Adam's part of the reason Cassidy has his big kick into stardom. Adam's tweeted his videos, his songs, told millions of adoring fans to look into a talented man by the name of Cassidy Haley. And Cheeks helps too. Ahhh, Cheeks. Good ol' buddy. Cute little fuck too (he doesn't mean fuck like _that_, but… yeah. Cheeks' is a cute guy).

_**There's a new game **_

_**We like to play you see**__**  
**_

At an rate, Cassidy is always more than willing to help Adam with clothing designs and fixes (we're gonna avert from sexual content for now). Always. He _likes_ helping Adam out; whether it's fixing the seams on pants (the last time he had to do that, the redness of Adam's face told Cassidy in full that the glam-singer and his bassist had gotten frisky before stripping, thus ripping the inner thigh of a gorgeous pair of glittery, silvery zebra pants that Adam had to wear on Leno the follow evening), or completely creating something new. It's in his blood to help and to create.

But this was something almost entirely out of Cassidy's league. In fact, he's sure that it's entirely out of his league, because it's impossible for a man and a team of fifteen or so to get this glam star's request accomplished. Adam was asking for, what, five new outfits for his Glam Nation tour this summer? And it has to be done before Friday so that he can get a move on and fucking leave? And it's Tuesday when this was asked?

Fuck.

When the call came in, Cassidy had been on the verge of begging Adam to find something— _anything!_— from his already overflowing wardrobe to take. Because, let's face it, there's no way in fuck he's gonna be able to get _five outfits_ done in four days. There's just no fucking way. But Adam had been so sincere in wanting Cassidy Haley originals. Things that popped. Things that glittered. A tasseled jacket with fur? A top hat that looks like Willy Wonka went completely glitter-struck? Leather, glittery pants with stitching _right around his fucking crotch_? A trench with elaborate (and glittery) embroidery? An open chest shirt that looks like something out of a Parisian fashion designer's recent défilé de mode?

"I'll make it up to you, whatever you want, I _promise_." That's what Adam said.

Well, how can Cassidy say no to that?

_**A game with added reality**_

So he put his entire team to work. Sketching designs and models, compromising and discussing until four in the morning, Wednesday. Quick coffee run, take some vitamins to keep him awake, jerk off in the bathroom real fast to keep himself awake, all the while reminding himself that Adam _did _say he could get _whatever_ he wanted. And that idea, in all truth, is just the motivation that he needed.

The first two outfits were finished in design at six AM, Wednesday. Immediately, Cassidy ran them to his workers and colleagues (a small team of seven) downstairs, telling them that if they didn't have the precise measurements, the exact fabric, color and done by five PM that day, they would probably be fired. Or demoted. One of the two. And with complimentary brownies (sadly they were not pot brownies, because Cassidy sure as _hell_ could have gone for one) and vente lattes, his mini team of brilliant experts got down to the wire, working with nimble fingers and precise care.

Seven AM and the third and fourth outfits were half way done in design, the completed portions already in progress of being made. Someone (he can't remember who at this point) asked about the leather pants with stitching around the _fucking _crotch (only Adam). Cassidy told them he would take care of those personally. Even all the while with working, he was planning on exactly what he wanted from Adam. And unfortunately this resulted in yet another trip to the bathroom. Fucking images.

Four thirty PM, the outfits downstairs were done and the third and fourth were in progress, their completion arriving fast. The fifth was a little harder— the tasseled coat. Purple fur, purple sleeves, shredded strands of fabric, all the while looking perfect. It turned out to be easier than Cassidy had thought that it would. Like, this fucking coat was done by eleven o'clock Wednesday night. True, there were still pieces that needed to be finished, hems that needed to be brought up (better than needing to add extra fabric). The little things that could be taken care of after a nice, hot shower and a good twelve hours of sleep.

_**You treat me like a dog**_

_**Get me down on my knees**_

The team went home around midnight, instructed to be back at ten to finish everything by noon. Of which they did! And with amazing success. Cass had walked into the building at a quarter after noon to see all the outfits (minus the leather pants) finished and bagged, ready to go. He'd smiled to himself, so proud of his workers and friends. Thinking about it, he realizes he overreacted a little, and makes a mental note to apologize about the threat to fire them. But that's for later.

Right now, he's got Adam standing on a small platform, and he's making sure that the pants are tight but not so he's unable to move. The design is to hug his ass and his thighs and then to flow away at the knees. So far, it's working good. He's just making sure it's not too tight. Because, as much as he knows that the fans would _love_ to see Adam in, quite-literally, skin tight pants, he wants to make sure that Adam's comfortable. Because he's gonna be wearing these pants for most of the show and every show.

"Honestly, Cass, I can't thank you enough for doing this for me." Adam says as Cassidy kneels down and pins the hem of the pants up a little more. Adam wants them to drag, but Cassidy feels like four inches of extra fabric seems a bit much. He's making it two and a half now. There's a thin gloss of sweat in his hair line from working, and he feels antsy. He's not sure why though.

_**We call it master and servant**_

"Of course, it's not a problem." Yeah, he can say that now since everything's done. But two days ago he was having some serious fucking issues. But now, he's relaxed. It's a quarter after ten on Thursday and he's fucking relaxed. Yes.

"I'm sorry it was on short notice though. I just… I was looking through the mini-mall of clothes I have and… Nothing really screamed Glam Nation to me, you know? I wanted something new, something no one's seen yet… Well, there's a lot of things people haven't seen yet, but that's for good reason. But I just… You know what I mean, right?" Cassidy's not really paying attention, but he nods and mutters something like "yeah, 'course". He sticks his tongue out slightly, focusing as he pins the last inch of fabric up, completely both hems.

"Need you to strip out of these so I can hem them." He says, standing straight and stretching. Adam steps off the platform and starts to attempt to unlace the front when he stops. He's confused. Cassidy looks over and smirks. "What? A Glam God can't undo the front of his own pants? Shame, Adam, shame."

Adam scoffs, placing his hands on his hips as Cassidy slinks over, standing in front of the singer and beginning to undo the laces. "Well, you tied the strings in a complicated fashion. It's not my fault."

Cassidy looks up with the smirk still tugging at his lips as his fingers pull the laces loose, freeing Adam enough to strip out of the leather. But his fingers remain on the material, and he can feel Adam's bare skin, the tuffs of hair… "And here I thought you were the master of stripping clothes." He whispers softly.

_**It's a lot like life**_

_**This play between the sheets**_

Adam blinks once, speechless. The designer's eyes trail over the features of Adam's face. The curves of his lips, the eyeliner smudged perfectly around his cobalt eyes. His face is a soft tan, the freckles on his lips standing out. The designer leans forward, capturing those tantalizing lips and he shivers when Adam moans. Cassidy's hand cups Adam's cheek, and he tilts his head to the side to mesh his lips easier against Adam's, his tongue pressing to the inside of the singer's cheek.

There's a battle for dominance that, perhaps surprisingly to some, Cassidy wins. They pull away, panting for air, and Adam's fingers are tangled into the designer's hair. His face is flushed, his ocean eyes glazed lightly with lust. Cassidy presses his hand against Adam's chest, slowly pushing the singer away from the platform and up against a wall. Adam's hands curl over the designer's shoulders, pulling him closer as Cassidy bites lightly into the side of the singer's neck, shivering as he feels the moans vibrating into his teeth.

"Aah, Cass…" Adam moans, squeezing harder on Cassidy's shoulders as the designer sucks hard on the skin of the glam singer's neck. His fingers tug at the leather fabric, pulling them slowly off of Adam's hips. His head is swimming with ideas at what to do to Adam. The singer did say he could have whatever he wanted. And as he pulls the pants off of Adam further and further, he knows exactly what he wants Adam to do.

Cassidy pulls away from the writhing male, and he smiles seductively when Adam moans in protest. The raven haired man's eyes open slowly, and he's pleading without saying a word. It's so temptingly beautiful, but the SkinGraft designer has his mind set, and he's not going to differ from that because of a pair of big, goo-goo eyes, sorry. He places his hands on his hips, straightening his back a little. He's only a few inches shorter than Adam, but with Adam a trembling mess and Cassidy smirking like the incubus he's playing to be, Cassidy has the aura of power and dominance.

"Adam, I'm going to ask you a simple question. A yes or no answer is all I need." Cassidy says, that smirk still on his lips. Adam's eyes clear a little from their haze, and he nods once for the designer to continue. "Do you trust me?"

_**With you on top and me underneath **_

_**Forget all about equality**_

Adam's eyes take on the recognition. He knows that phrase. Of course he knows the phrase, he's _Adam Lambert_. He probably knows and understands it better than anyone else in the world. But Cassidy watches the singer swallow once, blinking a few times. His hands are trembling at his sides. The singer's never had the question directed at him. It's always been to someone else. He's always been the one asking. And now he's being asked. And Cassidy can see the excitement in his eyes.

"Yes." Adam says softly. Cassidy's smirk widens, his eyes taking the light in a way that makes Adam visibly shiver. The designer turns away for a moment, passing the small platform and heading to the other end of his office. He passes the table that holds the drawings and designs, and towards the small corner where there's a small, breakfast-sort of table with two, sleek metal chairs. He pulls one aside, setting it down in the middle of the open floor. He turns to Adam.

"Strip." He says, before crossing towards the closet that sits by his desk. The wood floor is hard, and he thinks for a moment about where to put Adam for this. The couch up against the window? Perfect. He can do that. He opens the doors and slips inside, walking down to the end of the closet and pushing aside bagged dresses and suits to reveal a medium sized black box. He smiles to himself, kneeling down and pulling the box out from its nook, opening the lid. He pulls out a pair of black, leather booty shorts (saved only for special occasions, such as this), a black and silver cock ring, a steel plug, his favorite flogger (taut leather with a small nub at the tip), rope, a collar with rings and chains looping through, and a piece of black silk. He stands, setting everything aside and stripping out of his jeans and his tank-top, slipping into the shorts. They're basically a second skin, pretty much a teaser for his half of a hard-on.

He grabs the items, shoving them into a small black bag before snatching the flogger and walking out of the closet, back to the main room. Adam's standing with his hands folded neatly in front of him, facing the closet with such a beautiful look on his face. Cassidy smiles, his eyes raking up and down the exposed singer. Adam's freckled shoulders are broad, creamy and his hips are just the right height for the designer to reach up and pull him close. But he doesn't, because he's across the room. Cassidy lowers his gaze, admiring the toned length of Adam's legs, before he glances briefly at the Jewish erection that is beginning to swell.

Oh, and don't forget those gleaming nipple rings, either.

_**Let's play master and servant**_

He knows that if he stands and stares at Adam's naked body for another moment, his half-hard-on-now-turned-completely-erect will become aching. He slides across the floor, setting the bag and the flogger on the chair that's standing beside the singer. He leans up and kisses the Jewish male gently, his hand slithering and gripping Adam's hip and pulling him closer. He smiles against the singer's lips when he moans, and he pulls away, grinning ear to ear at the whine that falls off of Adam's tongue.

"Hold still." He says softly, and Adam nods once. He reaches into the bag and pulls out the rope, uncoiling it before grabbing Adam's hands. He ties them, making sure the rope is tight yet not so to allow circulation. Adam shouldn't be able to get out of the knot, either, since Cassidy ties them complicated and all.

He grabs Adam's bound hands, leading him towards the couch. The nice thing about it is the frame work. It's elaborate, quite huge, and there's a post in the center of the frame work that has given him a perfect idea. The height of the frame itself is about five feet, which is perfectly ideal. He takes Adam's hands and loops them over the post, thankful of the curves of the frame, for Adam's wrists rest right into the smoothed curves of iron. He pushes the singer onto his knees on the cushions.

Adam's shaking lightly, and Cassidy smirks, crossing back to the chair and pulling out several other items. The silk, the collar, the ring and the plug. He smirks to himself, slowly walking back towards where Adam is kneeling. He leans forward, pressing his lips to the side of the singer's neck, smiling as Adam shivers. He leaves light kisses as he takes the ring in his right hand and reaches around slowly, glancing down to make sure he's not going to miss. He wants this to be smooth. Fluid. Adam's eyes are closed and his head is leaning against Cassidy's shoulder. He smirks, kissing Adam's jaw as he slips the ring around the singer's cock. Adam jerks and snaps his head up, looking down.

Cassidy's fingers run down the length of Adam's growing erection, and he grins seductively as the black haired male trembles, moaning and dropping his head against Cassidy's shoulder again. "This is to prevent you from coming before I decide you've earned it." He presses another kiss into the singer's neck before taking the plug and running his tongue over it, slicking it. It's a little smaller than most others, but that's just fine, because he doesn't want to waste time prepping Adam for one of the larger ones. Besides, he likes this one. It's cute.

_**It's a lot like life **_

_**And that's what's appealing**_

With the plug slicked, he leans in close, breathing against Adam's ear as he nudges the tip up into the Jewish singer's entrance. Adam's back arches, a low moan rumbling from his chest as Cassidy pushes the plug deeper inside of him. The singer hisses as he's stretched, his eyes squeezed shut tightly. Cassidy can see his hands are clenching and unclenching against the iron, and he's bending like a bow before the main thickness of the curves slip inside, and the plug rests firmly in place. Cassidy smirks, giving it a gentle nudge, causing Adam to gasp,

"This is to drive you crazy." The designer whispers, nudging it farther in. Adam's hands clench into tight fists and he moans, his voice climbing into the higher octaves. He pulls away slightly, letting Adam breathe for a moment before he nudges the plug again. This time, when Adam moans, his voice cracks, and Cassidy smiles. _So beautiful_…

He takes the silk and folds it, before reaching up and tying it over Adam's eyes. The Jewish male shivers again, panting and trembling head to toe. The designer smiles to himself as he kisses the shell of Adam's ear, one hand stroking the dripping head of his cock, the other lightly nudging the plug. Adam makes a sound that's a cross between "aah" and "nngh", and it makes Cassidy grin as he nips Adam's ear with his teeth. "This is to keep you guessing about what I'm going to do to you…" He whispers, before grabbing the collar. The chains jingle, and Adam tenses visibly.

"And this—" he says as he slips it around Adam's neck, fastening it tightly, but enough to remain comfortable. "— this is to remind you that, tonight, you belong to _me_." His voice is low, dark, husky and seductive, the 'me' rolling off his tongue and sending shivers (along with a surge of blood) straight down his spine and to his throbbing erection. Yeah, he's hard. The sight of Adam bound, ringed, plugged and blindfolded— not to mention _claimed_— has brought him to this state. And as he trails his fingers down Adam's spine, Cassidy can already visualize the marks that are going to pretty it up.

He moves away from the couch, back towards the chair where his flogger sits, waiting like a snake to be charmed. He reaches over and grabs it, uncoiling and turning towards where Adam is kneeling. He's never seen the glam star look more beautiful off the stage. He smiles, shaking the flogger and cracking it once, making Adam jump almost out of his skin. There's one more thing he needs to do before he can continue with this, though. It's a given. It's part of the trust.

_**If you despise that throwaway feeling**_

"You can tell me to stop at any time. All you have to do is say your safe word. What is it, Adam?" Cassidy asks gently, his voice void of the seduction. For this, it's normal, it's caring and compassionate. Adam relaxes a little.

"Cheshire." He says, and Cassidy smiles. _So like Adam_. _Such a child, sometimes._

"From this point on, you will call me 'Master'. Is that clear, pet?" Cassidy's voice is low, sinister again. He watches Adam shake. The plug's jewel glimmers in the lighting of the office. His cock twitches in his leather shorts, and he bites down on his bottom lip.

"Yes, Master." Adam's voice is soft. So, so soft.

"Good," he says. "Let's begin."

Cassidy shakes the flogger again before rearing back and cracking it down across Adam's skin. The singer's back arches and he cries out, startled and in pain. But as he breathes, Cassidy can hear traces of moans. He takes a moment to allow himself a smiles, and then he's bringing the whip down and watching as the nub digs into the singer's back again, drawing a new, fresh, welting line into the freckled canvas. Adam screams, louder than before, his voice trailing off into moans of mixed pain and pleasure. It excites Cassidy. It makes him feel primal.

When the first marks really begin to swell, Cassidy takes a fast moment to admire the art he's beginning to create. The art that he wants Adam to embody and remember, to feel for days. Ohh… Yes. Adam will be feeling this for a long time, Cassidy knows. And when it stops hurting, the remaining marks will serve as the memory of a night where he was a slave. And even when the marks are gone, the memory itself will be vibrant. Because Cassidy will remember the placement of every lash. He can envision it now— a simple night out. And he'll make Adam shiver by pressing his nails into a spot where a welt and a bruise once sat.

_**From disposable fun**_

_**Then this is the one**_

Again and again, he brings the whip down. How many times is he doing this? How many times _should_ he do this? That doesn't matter now. He grips the flogger tighter in his hand, flick his wrist as his arm swings down, the nub slicing a fifth welt, lashing over the pre-existing four. He's barely aware of the throbbing in his shorts; he's focused on the bending of Adam's back, the hissing and moaning that's falling off the singer's tongue. He's focusing on the way Adam throws his head back to wail, the way his muscles tighten. The sweat and blood on that creamy, freckled skin—

Blood?

Oh shit.

True enough, thin veins of red splice up from a few spots. Cassidy pauses to take a breath and let Adam rest. He doesn't realize he's shaking until he drops the flogger to the floor. He glances down at it, but has no interest or intention in picking it back up. Instead, his feet carry him towards the couch. Towards the filthy, sweaty, bloody hot mess that is Adam Lambert. Funny, it seems. To think… The Glam Sex God was just whipped like a bad, bad little boy.

Oh, if the fans only knew the kinds of things that went on…

Cassidy leans over, pressing his lips to the cartilage of Adam's ear, his fingers like feathers on the welts. Adam hisses in pain, arching away from Cassidy. He doesn't blame the singer. It's natural instinct. Shy from pain. But that doesn't stop him from digging his nails into his shoulders, deep into criss-crossing welts and molting bruises. Yes, they're already beginning to form. Most don't know it, but Adam bruises easily. Almost as easily as his little Glitterbaby. Almost.

_**Domination's the name **_

_**Of the game**_

"You're so beautiful, pet." Cassidy says, running his fingers deep into Adam's sweaty hair. It's slick, and he pulls on it, pulling Adam's head back so he can crash his lips against that beautiful mouth. Tongues clash and lips mesh, and Cassidy wins the battle again, but that's because he's the Master. Adam's the servant of pleasure; naturally, he loses.

"So…" he moans against Adam's mouth, kissing him hard and dirty. "Fucking beautiful…" He reaches down and pushes the plug deep into Adam's ass, groaning as the singer bends and chokes on a gasp. An idea spurs in his creative mind, and he moves his fingers in circles, moving the plug in a circle to suit. And he knows it's pressed hard into that sweet spot within the singer, because he's gasping and moaning. He's trying so hard to thrust himself into the backrest of the couch for friction.

"None of that," Cassidy whispers, gripping the singer's hip and holding him away from the couch as he grips the jewel in his fingers, moving and nudging further. He's going to make Adam come without being touched. Simple by pure and utter pleasure. The mental image of it makes him ache in the pit of his stomach. He needs to let himself out of these shorts soon. They're starting to hurt.

Adam moans, his breathing light and sharp. Every sound is quick, high and _so fucking gorgeous_. Cassidy's trembling a little as he pulls the plug out a little and jamming it back in, moving it in more circles, large and small. Adam's hands clench and unclench, his back arches and he drops his head on Cassidy's shoulder. The designer grips the jewel, pulling the plug completely out and tossing it aside. He fumbles, stripping himself of his shorts. He can't do this anymore. He needs to fuck this beautiful man. He wants this to last, and he wants to imprint upon the singer that he's owned.

_**In bed or in life they're both just the same**_

He crosses to his desk, opening the top drawer and pushing aside papers and notes, reaching into the back of the compartment and pulling out a bottle of lube. He uncaps it quickly, squeezing some out onto his fingers and slicking himself up, moaning and gripping the desk as he massages the head and strokes from base to tip. As much as he would like to just stay right here, he glances over and sees Adam, and he thinks better of that. So much better, because there is better, and it's right in front of him.

He crawls onto the couch, kneeling behind Adam and kissing the back of the Jewish man's neck. One hand is at the base of his cock, hard and leaking, pressed firmly between Adam's cheeks, nudging right into his hole (he's never bothered with a condom. He's clean, and Adam trusts him). A simple motion and he'll be inside. But not yet. His other hand reaches around, snaking up Adam's chest and his fingers brush against Adam's right nipple ring. The singer arches, moaning and shaking under him. His breath caresses Adam's left cheek, and the male turns his head, allowing Cassidy to kiss him.

"Mine," he whispers against Adam's lips, dropping his hand to Adam's hip and shoving himself deep inside. Adam moans, arching as Cassidy sheathes himself deep, his groin pressed into Adam's ass. Adam shudders, biting down on his bottom lip for a moment.

"Yours… Fuck… f-fuck me, Master…" Cassidy moans softly, rolling his hips and thrusting hard into Adam. Thrusting hard into his pet. _His _pet. Ooh, how he loves the sound of that. For once it's not an idea. It's real. Adam is his tonight. Not Tommy's. Not Brad's. Not Drake's. His.

"M-Master… Oh…" It's music to Cassidy's ears, the sounds that are coming off of Adam's tongue. The rasp of breath and the slick skin on skin slapping. The sliding of his cock moving in and out of Adam's being. It's all a distinct and beautiful melody that's making the designer moan with each push and pull. He's surprised he hasn't come yet for how close he was to the brink of exploding when he was toying with Adam. That plug was a bit too… Fun, perhaps. Either way, he's enjoying himself. He's enjoying the dominance. He's enjoying _owning _Adam.

_**Except in one you're fulfilled **_

_**At the end of the day**_

"Mm… Fuck, Cass…" Adam slips, gasping. Partly because he fucked up. Partly because Cassidy hit deep within him. The designer leans back a little, placing his hands on the back of Adam's shoulders, palms flat. He's going to be quick about the lesson, but slow with the teaching. He curls his fingers so that his nails are pressed into the skin, and very, very, _very slowly_ he drags his nails down Adam's back. His nails aren't long, nor are they sharp. But the contact, the shape, the hardness of nails digging and sliding down tender, burning skin— Cassidy grins ear to ear as Adam's moans become throaty and desperate. He knows he fucked up.

"I'm sorry, Master… Ah… Please… Please, Master, don't—" Adam has to stop to wail and pant for a moment. "Don't stop." He begs. If Cassidy could see Adam's eyes, he knows he would be finished. That's part of why he blindfolded Adam. One, for the thrill. Two, because Adam's eyes do things to Cassidy that no kind of sex can ever hold a candle to. He doesn't want to let those eyes overpower him. Servant's eyes have always been the most beautiful.

He digs his nails into Adam's hips, thrusting hard. "I call the shots, I give the orders." Another hard thrust. "Not you, pet." The moans roll of his tongue before he can think, and Cassidy dips his head, biting hard into Adam's shoulder for a moment.

"S-so good… And tight, ah…" He hits that spot, shivering when Adam curses and moans. It's so beautiful, and he's so close.

"M-Master… I… I…" The designer grins. Oh yes. His pet will be feeling this for a very long time. "Please, Master, nngh— touch me… please…" Cassidy has a moment where touching Adam might not be so bad…

"No." He says, low and harsh into the singer's ear. Adam whines, rocking back to meet the designer's thrusts, taking all that Cassidy has (which is a lot). Cassidy's chest is pressed firmly to Adam's back, a thin sheet of sweat pooling between them. He dips his head down and rocks in and out of the singer as fast and as hard as he can. He can feel himself hitting the Jewish male's prostate over and over, because with each thrust the black haired man is moaning louder and louder.

_**Let's play master and servant**_

"Please!" Adam screams, panting and shaking. Cassidy presses his nose to Adam's cheek. The twenty-eight year old turns his head to receive a fierce kiss from the near-thirty-year old designer. His left hand vanishes from Adam's hip and he wraps his fingers around Adam's cock, giving it several good, long and hard pumps. Each pump is in time with the motion of his hips, and Adam's shaking like a leaf in the wind. He pulls away for air as Adam starts screaming.

"Aaah, aaaaahha! Mmm.. aah! Master… Oh, fuck, fuck!" Cassidy growls, rocking hard.

"So… fucking good…"

"Master, I'm… I— fuck me, harder!"

With pleasure.

_Pet_.

"Nnghh— aah! Aahn, Cassidy!" He doesn't even care at this point. The second he hears his name being called, he sees white as he fills Adam. He breathes hard, leaning against the singer, his face buried into the back of Adam's neck. Adam's forehead is pressed into the iron of the couch's frame work, treads of white sinking into the fabric and the cushions of the backrest. Cassidy reaches down blindly, unfastening the ring from Adam's abused and now-limp cock. He takes it off and chucks it across the room, uncaring of where it lands or what it might hit on the way.

He fumbles, untying Adam's wrists and pulling the singer over him as they lay down. The last thing to go is the blindfold, but not the collar. No, that's going to stay for tonight. The designer blinks, breathing hard as he brushes strands of sweat hair out of Adam's face. The signer smiles, pressing his lips to Cassidy's. They don't talk. They kiss and they're mindful of Adam's abused back, but otherwise they're silent. They're silent because words will ruin this atmosphere. This connection of master and servant as well as best friends.

If there's one thing for sure though. After this night, Cassidy never looks at this cough the same way again.

_**Come on, master and servant**_


	3. Closer, NeYo

**24. Closer – Ne-Yo**

He's naturally been able to resist. Sure, the blond's been a very pretty little kittycat lately, but hey— he knows his boundaries. And yeah, the AMA kiss ordeal is something that he tends to kick himself in the ass over, but he's not totally worried about it. It's been one of those things that has finally blown over a little bit. And he's dam glad too, because he's in the heat of his tour now. He's about halfway through it, rocking hard core and everything. Allison's been great, Orianthi's been fucking great. He's been having a blast.

_Turn the lights off in this place _

_And he shines just like a star_

_And I swear I know his face_

_I just don't know who you are_

But sometimes he wonders if the blond little spit-fuck is doing this on purpose. Just to test him. To see how far he's willing to hold back before he simply snaps into sexual overload. The shadow and liner on his eyes, making them smoky; suggestive; lustful. He's seen this in the blond's eyes and with the way the colors are just right, oh, when the light hits his face like a beacon it's the most beautiful thing ever. It's a wonder he hasn't jizzed in his pants on stage just yet.

_Turn the music up in here_

_I still hear him loud and clear_

_Like he's right there in my ear_

_Telling me that he wants to own me_

Maybe he's just… He's just tired from the show. It's taking a lot out of him, and it's a miracle he's able to summon the strength to perform night after night, especially with the strain on his voice. God, yeah, the high notes are nice and it drives the crowd wild, because they're all convinced it's beautiful and delicious. But sometimes he wants to tell them to try it, and see how they feel after they do it for an hour and have to do it again and again for several more months. It's just, he can't. He's not mean like that. He tries not to snap unless it's completely inevitable. And even then he feels really, really bad about it.

_To control me, come closer_

But back to the matters at hand. He's been enjoying himself on the tour, it's just that he wonders if Tommy's testing him. Testing to see how far he's willing to bend the blond's straight. Is the blond even straight? He just kind of assumes since Tommy's talking about girls a lot of the time, but maybe that's a cover? Because Adam knows for a damn fact that when he kisses Tommy on stage, Tommy's not thinking about girls. He's thinking about Adam. Hell, he's even admitted that Adam tastes better than a lot of girls.

_And I just can't pull myself away_

_Under his spell I can't break_

_I just can't stop _

_And I just can't bring myself no way_

Tonight, it's a little different. He's finishing up with his makeup and Tommy walks in with those smoky eyes, and the blond stands beside him. Adam figures that he'll just reach for the usual lip gloss, but no. Tommy reaches for a dark, sinful cherry red that makes Adam stare for a brief moment through the mirror. He pretends to be fixing his hair and he sneaks glances over at the bassist, watching those long, slender fingers gripping that tube of lip stick, the tip smudging over those plump lips. He's _so _got Twiggy lips for being a twink (well, that's what Brad calls him). He has to fight the urge to stare when Tommy rubs those lips together, puckering them out a little again before smiling to himself. Those slender, bass playing fingers pluck the gloss from the counter, going over the dark, cherry red. Give them some shine and glitter. As well as a good taste.

_But I don't want to escape, I just can't stop_

Tommy reaches over and gives Adam's arm a gentle squeeze, a smile pulling those plump, red lips upward like Cupid's bow. "See you at Fever, Babyboy." Adam trembles when Tommy's hand slips away, and the bassist leaves the room. Adam's breathing is irregular and he stares at him reflection. His eyes, his normal-bright-blue eyes are dark, heavy and needy. Those lips… Those lips haunt him sometimes in his dreams, and now they're so shiny and plump and red and looking like a delicious sin… Fuck you, Tommy Joe Ratliff. Fuck. You.

_I can feel him on my skin_

_I can taste him on my tongue_

_He's the sweetest taste of sin_

_The more I get the more I want_

He closes his eyes for a moment, thinking of all the times he's pulled Tommy's hair, touched his bass, pinched his nipples through his shirt, kissed those delicious lips, tasted that exotic tongue… Fuck, he can't get hard right now. He can't, not right before the show. Perhaps _during _the show is fine, but before? Oh, fuck, oh fuck, what's he going to do? All he can see behind his eyelids are those lips and the way they curl upward into that beautiful smirk. So taunting and teasing, tantalizing and suggestive. As if to say '_Come and get me, Babyboy_'. He's going to, one of these days.

_He wants to own me_

_Come closer_

_He says come closer_

Voodoo seems like it comes and goes, followed by Down The Rabbit Hole and Ring of Fire. He strips the furry, tasseled coat and the hat. He's barefoot, and, quite frankly, it's comfortable. He stands at the top of the platform, shaking his hips and his shoulders as those beats rack his soul and send shivers straight to his cock. Tommy's turning slowly, plucking the strings. He glances up at Adam, eyebrow cocked and smirk in place, the red gleaming. He struts down the steps, needing friction.

_And I just can't pull myself away_

_Under his spell I can't break_

_I just can't stop _

_And I just can't bring myself no way_

There he goes, my baby walks so slow. Sexual tic-tac-toe, yeah I know we both know it isn't time, no… He grips the back of Tommy's neck and leans in, at first his tongue is out, and Tommy licks him back. The taste and the sensation going right to his cock, but he doesn't stop. He shoves his tongue deep into Tommy's throat, kissing those cherry lips and moaning into Tommy's mouth. He hears and feels the returned moan, but he doesn't give himself time to dwell on it as he has to pull away to continue the song. But before he goes, he feels Tommy's hand on his ass, giving a hard, firm squeeze.

_But I don't want to escape_

_I just can't stop_

_C__ome closer_

_I just can't stop no_

And now, all night, he's thinking about that tongue, those lips, that _man_. That fucking man who's been playing with him since fucking November. _Fucking November_. But he goes through his songs, heartbreaking and dancing and when Sure Fire Winners plays he and Tommy get a little closer. Hell, Tommy licks his ear again, just as he'd done a few nights ago. The If I Had You intro so swell, and Adam can't resist the jerking motion for when Tommy's hand grips the bass neck and just pulls down and down… Unf.

_And I just can't pull myself away_

_Under his spell I can't break_

_I just can't stop _

_And I just can't bring myself no way_

Mad World is beautiful, but he just wants to get it over with so he can wrap his arm around Tommy and stroke his chest while howling "I'm gonna give you every inch of my love" right into Tommy's pierced ear. He can feel the heat radiating off of the blond's face and he smiles to himself so he can finish the song. The crowds are going wild and he's having fun. He trails his fingers along Tommy's neck before slapping his ass and rushing to the other side of the stage to sing to the audiences. As far as they know, it's all for show. And maybe it'll stay that way.

_But I don't want to escape_

_I just can't stop_

_And I just can't pull myself away_

_Under his spell I can't break_

They thank the crowds and Tommy's setting his bass down in its stand, with his back to everyone. Adam slinks over and smacks Tommy's ass again, giving it a squeeze. He turns and starts to run off with the crowds screaming. And he feels the stage pounding. A hand taps his shoulder and he turns. Tommy's hand snakes around the back of his neck, and he's pulled down into a heated kiss, Tommy's tongue slipping between his teeth. He feels fingers pinching his pierced nipples through his shirt and he gasps, left standing flushed and bothered as Tommy pulls away and slinks off like a cat, teasing its prey. Adam doesn't hear the crowds as he grins and follows the shorter but older male back stage. They're not done yet.

_I just can't stop_

_Come closer_


	4. When You're Good To Mama, Chicago

**When You're Good To Mama – Chicago**

"Drake, I think you've outdone yourself tonight," I say to my best friend with a smile as I follow him to an empty table. The theatre itself is a beautiful place; high vaulted ceilings and mahogany floors. Wood-paneled walls draped with red, velvet curtains spaced evenly apart. Gently lit chandeliers hang around the open space, giving the entirety a nice, dim and romantic feel. Tables and chairs on the open floor, all surrounding a stage that is lit up with lights. The grand curtain is drawn, more red velvet with gold trim. There's a soft chatter going around from the other theatre-goers.

"Oh, hush, Adam. I could've done a lot more to outdo myself. I just thought this would be modest." Drake comments, taking a seat near the front of the theatre, closest to the stage. He plucks the reserved card off of it and hands it to a passing server. I take my seat across the table from him, somewhat facing the stage, somewhat facing him. I smile, shrugging out of my long, wool coat and hanging it on the back of my chair. I'm wearing a pair of simple, elegant black trousers with a dark blue button up shirt and black tie. The sleeves are rolled up around my elbows and my hair is styled to frame my face. Black liner and soft, grey shadow. A light touch of gloss on my lips to finish the whole look.

I glance across the table, smiling at Drake. He's wearing grey trousers, a black button up shirt and white tie. His hair is spiked up a little and he's got a gentle touch of liner and gloss. He's so cute, and I still find myself lucky that we're still friends even after breaking up. It was mutual, though. He smiles back at me, blushing a little. It was his idea to bring me here as a late birthday gift. But I guess I should mention where, exactly, we are, huh?

We're in a burlesque theatre. You know, strip teases, sexy songs and ladies and gents with beautiful bodies and confidence like no other? Yeah. This was Drake's idea. He told me, a few weeks ago, that he knew about this great place that he wanted to take me when we both had the time off of work. Now it's well into February and we're just now getting to this little belated birthday party. But it's okay because, so far, I'm enjoying every moment of it and it hasn't even started yet.

Another server comes by with what looks like two drinks mixed up in elegant, crystal blue glasses. I smile at Drake, taking the drink in my hand and sipping. It's fruity with a bit of a punch to it, something that makes me feel giddy to the pits of my stomach. I smile again, laughing a little before taking another drink of the concoction. The lights dim a little further and a spotlight hits the grand at stage-left. I set my drink down, turning in my seat and facing the stage a little more.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Drake smirking over at me before turning his head towards the stage. I shake my head a little, still smiling as a tall, black man with dark brown eyes wearing a black tuxedo comes out into the light, a soft, sly smirk on his wide lips. His hands are at his sides as he glances out at the audience for a moment. The room is silent for a moment before a soft drum roll begins to vibrate through the theatre.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special performance for a special occasion," oh, Drake… "please welcome to the stage KittyCat Ratliff in his rendition of _Chicago_'s '_When You're Good To Mama_'." The audience claps, along with myself and Drake. This KittyCat Ratliff… The name intrigues me as a sensual, provocative, jazzy tune begins to play, and the grand opens up, a soft piano clinking a set of notes before it falls silent for a moment. A set of stairs leading up to a platform is revealed, and there's a group of girls, four on each side of the platform, holding up two, giant feather fans. They're dressed in white lace and jewels, their hair in short pixie cuts. They're beautiful

But not as beautiful as the person they reveal as they pull the fans away in swift, elegant waves. In the center stands a man with beautiful blond hair that is pinned back to frame the face. Porcelain-like skin, lean, long legs and a face more beautiful than any I've ever seen. Plump lips coated with a cherry stain, smoky silver eye shadow dusted onto the lids. He is dressed in a long, white robe with fur trim, one leg exposed to reveal a lean thigh and calf and a foot strapped into a beautiful white stripper heel. Atop his head are a pair of cat ears that match his hair. When KittyCat Ratliff turns his head towards the audience, I'm wondering just how exactly he's a man, for he is utterly gorgeous.

He's holding a feather fan in his right hand, waving it in front of his face as a soft smile pulls at his lips. Gentle jazz plays again as he opens his eyes, and they are a delicious chocolate brown, and when he opens his mouth to sing, I become aware, immediately, ust how much I'm going to enjoy this show, "_Ask any of the chickies in my pen, they'll tell you I'm the biggest mother— hen._"

He trails his fingers along the cheek of one of the girls, smiling slightly and still singing; he hands his fan to a different girl, "_I love all of them, and all of them love me because the systems works— the system called 'reciprocity'!_" He swings his hip to the side as a heavy, sexual jazz sound coos from behind the stairs— I'm guessing that's where the band is. KittyCat Ratliff takes a step down the stairs to the beat of the song, his legs flashing from the robe with each step. He's got incredibly beautiful legs.

He stops down center stage, nimble fingers curling into his robe. I can't breathe for a moment, because he's even more gorgeous up close. "_Got a little motto— always sees me through. When you're good to Mama—_" he pulls the robe away, letting it slip from his shoulders, and now I truly can't breathe, "_Mama's good to you_."

KittyCat Ratliff is wearing a white corset that's laced up the sides with blood-red ribbons, ending just around the juts of his hips and hugging up just above where his nipples would be. His porcelain skin looks to be covered in a light layer of glitter, making him shine with each step. There's a pair of white leather booty shorts that cling to his back-side and thighs. And when he does a little spin, I see a blood-red hear on the right cheek. Around his neck is a red collar with a white bell hanging from a metal loop.

Just staring at him makes me feel hot; my clothes feel tight, my skin is itchy and my mouth runs just a little dry. I reach over for my glass, taking a long drink of whatever fruity alcohol has been brought to me, and, I swear, I can see Drake smirking at me out of the corner of my eye. Fuck you, Drake. You son of a bitch.

"_There's a lot of favors I'm prepared to do. You do one for Mama, she'll do one for you…_" KittyCat Ratliff sings, a small smile pulling at his plump lips as he does another turn, his hands curling around a long, metal pole that stands off on stage right. The light that hits his skin makes me sparkle, his eyes gleaming as he looks across the theatre. He looks so young, so innocent. I have to wonder how old he is… Is he legal?

His leg curls around the pole as he does a turn, holding himself away by his left hand. His muscles are toned— "_They say that life is tit for tat,_" he lets go of the pole, dancing across the stage, "_and that's the way I live. And I deserve a lot of tat for what I've got to give!_" He slides to a stop, sitting on the edge of the stage, crossing his legs like a woman. He looks humble, and I'm gulping down more of my drink. It's too hot in this room…

His left hands slides up the inside of his thigh before he raises it, smirking, "_Don't you know that this hand washes that one too?_" His right performs the same action, and his smirk, now, is a little less innocent. "_When you're good to Mama, Mama's good to you_." He shifts his position on the stage, sitting sideways with one leg propped up, the other hanging off the edge. I'm gnawing on my bottom lip, shifting in my seat to hide the wood this boy has given me. Fuck you, Drake.

"_If you want my gravy,_" his palm slides up the front of his corset, before moving and plucking at a ribbon, loosening the corset. It slips a little, exposing a— pierced nipple. Oh, fuck… "_pepper my Ragu,_" he pulls on the strings, tightening it back up as he lays flat on his back. His right hand slides along his thigh, up his chest and into his hair. "_Spice it up for Mama, and she'll get hot!—_" his hips thrust up, his back arching, and I can't stop the moan that falls off my lips. "_— for you…_"

"_When they pass that basket folks contribute to_," he swings the leg that's been hanging off the side back up onto the stage, rolling over so he's flat on his stomach. He faces out to the audience and, for a moment, we make eye contact. He smiles, leaning up so that his hips are still on the floor but his chest is up, his back making a beautiful curve. "_You put in for Mama, and she'll—_" he shifts, laying flat for a moment before he bends onto his knees, "_— put out—_" he pulls himself back, swinging his ass into the air, curving his back and giving them most erotic, pleasured expression I've ever seen on his face… "_— for you._"

My heart is pounding in my chest and I know Drake is trying to hold back laughter, but when I look over, he looks just as needy as I do. Ha! It's a bitch, isn't it, Drake? I smirk, turning my head back to the stage. KittyCat's changed positions again, though this time he's sliding off of the stage, curling around through the audience members. A spotlight follows him every second of the way as he sings to various people, smiling and running his fingers through hair and over shoulders.

"_The folks atop the ladder are the ones the world adores. So boost me up my ladder, kid, and I'll boost you up yours!_" KittyCat circles around a table, a smile on his face as he seems to walk closer to me and Drake. I glance over at Drake, and the brunette is just smiling, motioning for me to look back towards the boy. I turn, and suddenly he's right there beside me, lit up and looking so fucking pretty… I can't breathe.

"_Let's all stroke together like the Princeton Crew,_" he sings, his hands rubbing down my shoulders before he takes one of my hands in both of his, pressing it to his cheek, "_when you're stroking Mama,_" he smirks, pulling my hand down his corset, across his stomach as he leans forward, whispering the next phrase into my ear, "_Mama's stroking you._" I feel his fingers trail down my chest and towards my erection. I moan as he presses a kiss to my cheek before turning away and heading back onto the stage.

I'm panting heavily, feeling electrified by those touches, and I can't take my eyes away from the pretty blond as he turns, facing the audience, his feet are shoulder-width apart and he's got such a lusty smirk on his face. "_So what's the one conclusion I can bring this number to?_" He lets out a small laugh, glancing over a me, "_When you're good to Mama— Mama's good to you!_" I thought I could sing, but, good God, this boy can belt. His voice seems to shake my very soul and send chills through my body, making me tremble as the song ends. The lights go out on stage and the theatre erupts in applause and cheer. I stand from my chair, cat-calling out and clapping hard, still shaking a little. Drake laughs beside me before grabbing our coats and pulling me towards the double doors that lead out into the lobby of the theater.

"Did you enjoy the show?" He asks me, and I give him the 'are you kidding me?' look. He laughs again, shaking his head and handing me my coat. I fold it over my arm, glancing back towards the stage as he walk out the doors.

"Excuse me, sir?" Someone calls out, and Drake and I both turn our heads to see a young man with light brown hair and brown eyes. He's got a strong, good build with a lop-sided smile. "Are you Adam, sir?" He asks me, and I nod once.

"KittyCat wants to see you," he says. An excited smile pulls at my lips and I look back at Drake, who's taking my coat from my arms.

"Have fun tiger. Call me when you need me." He says, before turning to go. I look back at the boy, and he motions for me to follow him.

He guides me to the back of the lobby through a set of double doors that opens up to a long, wide hallway. Several doors on either side, people running back and forth to set up the next act. Boys and girls of all colors, ages and sizes dressed in elaborate outfits of silk, rhinestones, feathers and laces. Some have the innocent look, others are more risqué. At any rate, each of them are beautiful and some catch my eye, but the boy continues to pull me along down to the end of the hall and to the left.

More doors, more people, until he knocks on the last door on the right of this second hallway. I swallow the lump in my throat as a soft voice calls back, telling us to enter. The boy turns the knob, poking his head in at first, saying he's brought me with him. He pushes the door open, revealing KittyCat in a dressing room, wearing a white, silk robe. He smiles, looking down at the boy.

"Thank you, Kris." He says, and Kris nods once, turning and pulling me into the room before exiting, shutting the door behind him and leaving me and KittyCat in silence.

The room itself is nice, somewhat large with a wall to wall counter stretch, mirrors that are framed with boas. The counter itself is littered with different assortments of makeup of colors and textures, clothes strewn on a couple of spots and on a few racks. There's a couch in the back corner that looks soft and inviting. I turn my attention, fully, to KittyCat, who's smiling softly. He's cleaned off most of the makeup, and, with the raw complexion, he's even more beautiful than before.

"Enjoy the show?" His question pulls me out of my state of staring, and I blush a little, smiling and nodding once.

"I did, yes." I tell him, and he grins. "But… How did you know my name?" I ask him, and the grin becomes more knowing. In fact, he even laughs a little bit. He has such a pretty laugh.

"I'm a friend of Drake's," that's all I truly need to hear, but he continues to explain, and I find myself not minding at all, "and he called me up last week saying he was bringing a special friend of his to the show. But what he neglected to tell me was how gorgeous his friend is…" KittyCat has a blush and I smile, feeling my face heat up. Part of me wants to tell him I want him and fuck him senseless, part of me wants to sit down and get to know him. Which do I listen to?

"Well, you're quite beautiful yourself," I tell him without thinking, and the blush grows. He steps closer to me, his eyelashes fanning across his cheeks as he blinks, looking up at me. My heart skips a beat and I find myself wanting to just melt in his eyes. So rich, so… I can't even find words at this point.

The attraction pulls us and my lips press to his in a soft, gentle and chaste kiss. He moans softly as my hands reach up, palming his face. His arms wrap around my neck as he steps closer, his body pressed tight against mine. I'm sure, by now, my hard-on is nudging into his stomach, but he makes no notice of it. Or maybe he does notice it and he's just not mentioning it at all. Whatever. He tastes sweet, like cherries, and my tongue slides between his lips, grazing over his. He trembles in my grasp and I pull back for a quick breath of hair before kissing him again.

This time, I moan first, walking forward slowly and pressing him against the wall of his room. He groans, his fingers knotting themselves into my hair and pulling. My eyes roll into the back of my head as one hand falls, trailing down his side and grasping his hip. Our mouths work in fluid, quick and lusty swipes, clicks and wet pops of lips and tongues dancing together in such a sort of rhythm that makes me ache. I want him. But I want to know him more.

One of his hands curls around the back of my neck, the other curling around my arm as I pull away, resting my forehead against his. We're breathing hard, flushed and wanting. My thumb traces circles into the skin of his cheek and he smiles, looking back up at me. He stands on his tiptoes, kissing me softly again, once— twice— three times before he rocks back down onto his heels, blushing. I dip my head, pecking his mouth. He tastes too good to stop…

"I'm Tommy." He says. Tommy. I love it.

"Adam," I say with a smile.

"Wanna go out sometime?" He asks me, and my heart skips a beat.

"I thought you'd never ask," I whisper, kissing him again.


	5. Hands All Over, Maroon 5

**100. Hands All Over – Maroon 5**

_Put your hands, all over, put your hands all over me  
Put your hands all over me_

The lighting is dim; not so dark to be unable to clearly see everything going on, but not so bright as to ruin the moment. The bed is wide, and long, larger than most. But then again, it was built for this kind of thing, among other things. Sheets are black with a red comforter thrown over them, black pillows like ominous shadows at the head of the bed. Of the four walls, three of them covered with floor to ceiling mirrors, bouncing the voodoo of the bed back and forth in a vortex of sensual seduction. Even the ceiling is a mirror, but, conveniently enough, the mirror is only above the bed, catching the image below and reflecting it back down. It's kind of surreal, honestly. No matter where anyone could look, they could see themselves.

The floors are a dark mahogany wood that looks like chocolate in the mirrors' reflections. A red velvet cake sitting in a pool of rich chocolate. The dinner was beyond the door, this is the desert. And the desert is being enjoyed to the fullest, for damn sure. For there are two figures on the bed. One who is lying, sprawled on his back, shaking with a light layer of sweat sticking to his skin. His blond hair is askew around his face and head, his head rested on one of the black pillows. His hands are handcuffed above his head, chained to a small ring in the floor. He can't move them. Which is good.

_I can't seem to find the pretty little face I left behind  
Wandered out on the open road_

The piercings of rings through his brown-bud nipples gleam in the lighting. His jaw is slack as he breathes deeply through his mouth, eyes covered with a silk blindfold with lace trim. His hands clench and unclench with each sensation that he feels, and soft whimpers fall from his lips. And he has every right to whimper, because his poor being is clenched with the tightest ring possible, it seems, and there's also that one _object_ nestled inside of him that, though he's not sure if it's unfortunate or not, keeps poking that one _spot _inside of him whenever he breathes, making his breath hitch and more whimpers fall off his tongue. It's a vicious circle.

His toes clench as the person above him presses a kiss to the inside of his pale thigh, teeth grazing the skin and leaving a small, gentle bite. His back arches as another bite is left on his skin, closer, this time, to his hip and farther from his leg. His breath comes out shaky and hoarse, and he's half tempted to beg the other man to cut the crap with the teasing already. How long has this been going, anyway?

_Looking for a better place to call home  
Gave him a place to stay and he got up and ran away_

Hands slide up his thighs, over his lack of hips and along the sides of his ribs. They're smooth, gentle and sweet, sweeping over the expanse of his chest and down in circles along his stomach. Legs straddle his knees as the hands shift upward, moving along his shoulders and up his forearms, lips breathing against his neck. He tilts his head back, letting another soft moan pull itself from his throat as teeth nip the underside of his jaw, just above the thin stretch of leather. A collar. It's even got a little bell on it.

"Mm, Tommy…" Drake whispers against his ear, pressing a kiss to his neck again. Tommy shivers, licking his lips and swallowing, trying to get some moisture back into his mouth. The air's made it dry because his jaw's been open for who knows how long, and when he opens his mouth again it's only sealed shut by Drake's lips, Drake's tongue sliding in and tasting him. Tommy moans softly, wishing his hands weren't chained to the floor because he wants to reach up and run fingers through Drake's hair.

_Well now I've had enough  
His pretty little face has torn me up_

Fingers leave a hot trail down his chest before toying with a nipple ring, and Tommy's back arches a little, his head pulling away from Drake's, separating their lips so he can gasp. He can only assume that Drake is smiling, because his fingers flick the ring back and forth, sending shivers shooting up and down the bassist's spine. Drake chuckles, playing with the ring some more before shifting his position, leaving kisses down Tommy's flat stomach.

His lips are soft and warm, light and feathery and making Tommy tremble. They trail down and down, closer to the problem that has been waiting, erect as ever, for what feels like hours. Tommy gnaws on his bottom lip, shaking still as a gust of warm, moist air washes around the ache and he groans, arching a little again. Another breath and he whines. Once again and he feels like he should be begging, but he doesn't because the whimpers are frequent and pleading in their own tone.

_Put your hands all over me please talk to me, talk to me  
Tell me everything, it's gonna be alright_

"Tommy, Tommy, Tommy…" Drake whispers, lips brushing like butterflies against his skin and making him weak with pleasure. Tommy bites down on his bottom lip again, swallowing the lump of a cry in his throat as Drake's tongue presses itself against him, sliding up and over, making him jerk and moan. He clenches his hands and pulls against the chain that's connected to the floor and the strain makes his muscles groan in protest. How long has this been going on, again? Eternity? Please say eternity…

Drake's tongue ghosts around the base of the blond's member, just above the curve of the ring, and it pulls yet another strangled moan from his throat. Tommy's back arches, his hips lifting from the bed and closer to Drake's mouth, who, in response, chuckles low before pushing him back down to the bed. Tommy whimpers, pulling on the chains again. His arms ache with a strained stiffness that is becoming a little less pleasurable and a little more uncomfortable. But there's a hope in the back of his mind that, soon, he'll be too far gone to really care.

_Put your hands all over me  
Please walk with me, walk with me now_

"Fuck, Drake…" Tommy whines, wanting so badly to be touched. He can't take much more of this teasing, and it feels like with every breath he's getting closer to coming undone. His fingers twitch and clench into fists, his jaw slack as a breathy gasp is heard.

"What do you want, Tommy?" Drake asks, his voice a soft whisper in the air. Tommy swallows the lump in his throat. What does he want? He wants to be fucking touched already. He wants… He wants more than this teasing and he's not sure how to say it just yet…

_Love is a game, you say, play me and put me away  
Put your hands all over me, ooh oh!_

"Please…" He whispers, arching up a little to, hopefully, make his pleas and wants known. Drake chuckles, and Tommy can just see the smirk the Cajun brunette must be wearing right now. "Please… Mm, fuck…" Tommy mumbles, biting down on his bruised bottom lip again, trembling with every breath that washes over his skin.

"Fuck? You wanna fuck, Tommy?" Tommy can hear the smirk in Drake's voice and has half a mind to bring a knee up to Drake's balls. Of course he wants to fuck, can't the younger man see that? Drake's hands roamed up his sides, tickling his ribs and making him quiver into the sheets of the bed. Drake pushes his nails into the flesh of Tommy's chest and pull down, making the blond's jaw drop in ecstasy as his back curves again. Drake smiles softly, planting a gentle kiss to Tommy's neck.

_Now you've lost your mind  
The pretty little boy I left behind_

"I do quite like teasing you, though," Drake whispers into the lobe of Tommy's left ear, his tongue darting out and slicking the side of the blond's face. Tommy trembles again, moaning softly as Drake's fingers curl into the back of the collar around his neck. Drake pulls on it, cutting the air passages of Tommy's throat; the blond chokes, but he doesn't panic, really. The lack of air makes him a little light-headed and, if it's even possible, even harder than before.

"Please…" Tommy whispers with the breath he had in his lungs before Drake started tugging on the black leather. The pressure releases and the blond gasps, feeling the rush of breath make his black world spin just a little. Lips press to his in a chase kiss as fingertips stroke his member, making him buck and moan like a whore. "Fuck!"

_And now you're getting rough  
But everybody knows you're not that tough_

Drake smiles against Tommy's lips before shifting his attention to the bassist's problem, which is curved like a rainbow. It's flush, angry and throbbing somewhat, and the whole thing just looks like a dream waiting to happen. The artist shifts his position, going back to straddling Tommy's legs before ghosting a breath along the shaft of sensitive skin. Tommy bucks up again, the head pressing itself gently to Drake's slightly parted lips, and the artist tastes salt as he smiles again.

"Oh, Tommy… You're such a whore," Drake comments, bending his head down and easing Tommy into his mouth. The bassist's toes curl and he squeals shamelessly, his face flushed with blood as he cranes his head back. His chest heaves as he fights to remember how to breathe. But it's difficult because Drake's cheeks hollow slightly and there's a rush of fuzzy black that washes over his vision for a moment. No, he hasn't come undone yet, but he knows he's going to, embarrassingly soon.

_Wandered out on the open road  
Looking for a place to call your own_

Tommy groans when Drake scrapes his teeth ever so gently against the skin and he chokes on a breath when the brunette's lips are wrapped around the head of his erection like it's a fucking lollipop. And even with blinding pleasure sending shock waves through his body, Tommy has to wonder how it all came to this. Even in the back of his mind where he's tried to shove all logic away, it slips loose for the briefest of moments. Sure, Drake had come out to have a nice time with Adam and the band. Maybe a little dancing, a couple drinks, and some mingling.

But Tommy remembers, vaguely, talking a lot to Drake. Really getting to know him, you know? Maybe that's how they got here. They found some common ground and— _ooh, stop thinking, Tommy_. Drake's throat makes a soft hum as he takes Tommy whole again and the bassist squeals, gasping and trying to keep himself from screaming. There's an aching pressure in the base of his spine as his orgasm tries to fight through the ring that's clasped tightly around the base of his member. He's trembling head to toe as the artist's tongue dashes out at the tip, and then Tommy just can't hold it back anymore.

_Scared to death of the road ahead  
Pretty little thing, don't get upset_

He draw drops and he lets out a high wail, back arched and fingers curled into fists, his wrists pulling at the cuffs. He hears Drake gasp softly, but he can't see what might've been the cause. It's the fucking blindfold thing, again. Such a bitch, really. Drake presses a kiss to Tommy's stomach, wiping the come off of his face before licking his fingers clean. He hadn't anticipated Tommy unwinding so quickly; the bassist didn't give him a chance to swallow him again before it happened.

Not that he's complaining, really. It's always been a huge turn on to him to be… _painted_, in a sense. Drake smiles softly, sliding back up to leave a soft kiss in Tommy's hair line. His lips hover beside Tommy's ear as he reaches up, trailing fingers along the edges of the blindfold, "You've been such a good boy, Tommy… So good for me. Shall I reward you?" Drake's voice is soft, barely above a whisper as Tommy whimpers, nodding his head once. The artist smiles, pulling the blindfold off of Tommy's face, and the blond blinks a couple of times before staring up at the brunette.

_Put your hands all over me please talk to me, talk to me  
Tell me everything, it's gonna be alright_

Drake's always felt a little jealous of how pretty Tommy is. But, tonight, he's not jealous. He's thankful. Tommy is _so_ very pretty, yes. And this pretty Tommy is _all his_. Drake smiles, trailing fingers over Tommy's poor, red lips. The blond's been gnawing on them all night. And Drake just can't help himself as he leans down and slips his tongue between Tommy's teeth, meshing their mouths together. True, those beautiful lips have been abused, but they're still kissable.

Drake pulls away from Tommy's mouth, breathing hard onto Tommy's neck, "Tell me what you want, baby." Tommy arches, whining again and pleading with his eyes as he lifts his hips to meet Drake's. The artist gasps softly, feeling Tommy's somewhat hard member pressing into his thigh. His eyes slip shut and he ghosts a kiss along Tommy's lower lip. He'd love nothing more than to take the blond, right _now_.

_Put your hands all over me please walk with me, walk with me now  
Love is a game you say play me and put me away_

"You." Tommy whispers, and that's, truly, all the incentive Drake needs.

He dips his head, leaving a gentle kiss on the side of the blond's neck as he reaches down with his left hand, nudging Tommy's thighs apart. The bassist shifts, being obedient and spreading so Drake can reach under. His fingers curl around a small, circular object and he begins to pull, gently tugging the plug out inch by inch before it slides free with a soft cry from Tommy's throat. He tosses it aside, uncaring as it bounces off of the bed and clatters down to the floor, rolling away. He'll get it later.

_Love is a game you say play me and put me away  
Put your hands all over me, put your hands all over me_

Drake figures that, being teased and tortured into all of this, that Tommy is ready and needs no further preparation. In complete truth, Drake's just too impatient to work Tommy open. That gust of breath that carried the three-lettered-word to his ears is curling around the base of his spine and making him tremble with anticipated pleasure. He believes, at this point, if he tries teasing Tommy any further, he'll come undone himself.

Tommy looks up at the mirror on the ceiling, watching Drake's reflection as nimble fingers tickle his thighs before retreating. Tommy gazes up, moaning softly as he watches the mirrored Drake stroking himself with a white, fluffy cream splicing up between fingers. The bassist licks his lips before tearing his eyes away from the mirror and back to the real thing in front of him. Drake looks so into touching himself that Tommy whines again. Why can't he be touched like that?

_Put your hands all over me  
All over me_

Drake reaches up, touching Tommy's face gently with soft, slightly slicked fingertips. The blond turns his face into the touch, purring softly; Drake smiles sweetly. The artist positions himself so that he's nudging Tommy's entrance gently, and, reflexively, Tommy tenses his body before remembering to relax. He's done this before, this is nothing new. But it's still a reaction that he's trying to control; to change.

The artist kisses him again, whispering into his mouth, "You're beautiful," he says, pushing himself inch by inch into Tommy. The blond arches, moaning and pulling at the cuffs around his wrists again. This is ridiculous— all he wants is to fucking _touch_ Drake, but he can't. And the metal is seriously starting to dig into his skin. He knows, for damned sure, he's going to have some very, very pretty bruises after tonight.

_So come down off your cloud, say it now say it loud  
Get up in my face, pretty little boy, come make my day_

When Drake finishes pushing himself in, Tommy lets out a soft, shaking moan as his body tries to stretch and, in a sense, shape itself to accommodate the brunette's size. It's painful, to say the least, but he knows it's not going to last long; it never does. Drake presses a kiss to Tommy's chest, fingers leaving hot trails in his skin as he pulls out a little, only to shove back in.

Tommy throws his head back, squeezing his eyes shut as the artist nudges that _spot_ deep inside of him, making him quiver with ecstasy. His head is spinning a little and he really, _really_ wants to touch Drake. But, all the same, he doesn't want to ask. He doesn't want to step out of line. But, _fuck_, the urge to is so strong…

_Put your hands all over me, please talk to me, talk to me  
Put your hands all over me, now walk with me, walk with me now_

"Drake…" Tommy whispers softly, moaning gently as Drake picks up the speed of his thrusts. He's easy about it, being careful so as to not hurt the blond, and his brown eyes meet Tommy's briefly.

"Yeah, baby?" He replies, panting a little as his hands clasp hard onto the blond's hips. Tommy bites down on his bottom lip, turning his head away, breathing into the curve of his arm. His shoulders are aching and he's pretty much lost feeling in his wrists, and when Drake bumps into that spot again, he chokes.

"Please… I… Mmm, I need…" Tommy begins to say, but he finds himself unable to finish the sentence as Drake hits that spot again. His face is red with pleasure and his eyes are dazed with lust. Drake groans softly, licking the side of Tommy's neck before nipping the skin; it's to get Tommy's attention back.

"What… Nngh, do you need, baby?" Drake questions softly, dropping his mouth open and gasping when Tommy tightens around him. Shit, this boy feels good…

_Put your hands all over me, gotta talk to me, talk to me  
Come on now, babe, put your hands all over me_

"I need… to… touch you, please…" Drake considers telling him no, because Tommy can beg so beautifully that it's almost a crime. But when he sees the pained expression mixing with raw pleasure, he knows that he can't deny the blond something that he, clearly, needs to do. Besides, Tommy's fingers are talented— why not let the boy move?

The brunette reaches up to where Tommy's hands are chained, and he clenches at the cuff around his left wrist, flicking a small switch on the inside, letting it release his pale skin. He repeats the action with the right and Tommy groans, shifting and sighing softly. Drake lets his eyes slip shut as his head falls onto Tommy's shoulder, his hips beginning to slam into Tommy's thighs. Sure enough, he feels fingertips digging into his skin, playing with his nipples and scratching his back. Drake lets out a gasp as Tommy even manages to trace a finger around his entrance, and he bucks a little harder into the blond, forcing a strangled cry from his collared throat.

Drake reaches up again, curling fingers around the collar and giving it a sharp tug, hearing a choked breath from Tommy's lips. Against his stomach, he feels a hard pressure and smiles. The blond _really_ likes being unable to breathe… Tommy's legs wrap around his waist, pushing him deeper as he pulls on the collar again, and this time the bassist cries out, arching up into the artist. Drake pulls away, staring down at the shivering blond and almost coming undone right there. He's so fucking beautiful.

_Gotta walk with me, walk with me now  
Love is a game you say play me and put me away_

Tommy's lips are parted in a moan as he reaches up, curling a hand around the back of Drake's neck and pulling him down into a dirty, delicious kiss. Both boys moan softly as Tommy's hand covers Drake's over his hip, his legs tightening and forcing the brunette to push deeper into his body. Mouths meshed and tongues slid over and long one another before they pulled away from each other, gasping for air as Drake's thrusts became erratic and out of rhythm.

It's a beautiful sight, truly— Drake's got one of his hands on Tommy's hip, the other palming his face. One of Tommy's hands covers the one of Drake's on his hip, the other curled around the back of the artist's neck, legs curved around Drake's waist. The brunette's head is bowed, eyes half closed and sweat dropping off of his body and onto Tommy's chest and neck. The blond's back is arched, head tilted up a little; eyes closed and mouth open ever so slightly. And the image is thrown back and forth through the mirrors on the walls and on the ceiling. It's a kind of voodoo, really.

Tommy's eyes squeeze shut as Drake's nails dig into his hip. They're both coming to an end; to their undoing. Well, Tommy's second, but that's not what matters right now. Drake presses another kiss to Tommy's neck, just below where the collar digs into his skin. Each thrust is moving Tommy's body and making the bell jingle lightly. Almost hypnotic.

_Love is a game you say play me and put me away  
Put your hands all over me, yeah, all over me_

"Baby… I—" Drake whispers, unable to finish as Tommy tightens once more around him.

"Mmm, me too… Aaah, fuck!" Tommy hisses as Drake just _slams_ into that spot. So close; so, so close… "Fucking love you, so much…" Tommy moans as Drake hits into him again, and he cries out.

"F-fu… Fuck, Tommy… L-love you, too, baby…" Drake moans into Tommy's shoulder; hot, wet breaths spilling into the bassist's skin. It makes him tremble and he turns his head out of Drake's palm and towards his face, breathing against his cheek. He tries to say the phrase "touch me", but it comes out muffled and distorted. And, yet, Drake seems to understand, because the hand that was by Tommy's face disappears and curls around the shaft. Tommy arches, crying out wildly as his whole body tenses. Drake groans, pulling up and down hard and slamming as deep into the blond as he can go—

"_Drake!_" Tommy screams, white flashing behind his closed eyes as a warm, gooey liquid surges inside, filling him up to his belly and making him weak. That's the second time he's come through this fucking ring and now he feels more like a pile of jelly and less of a human being. It only feels like pressure when Drake's fingers pluck the ring off of him and he moans softly when the artist pulls out.

Drake collapses on top of Tommy, fingers lazily stroking Tommy's arms and face as they kiss. Tommy turns his head into it, pushing Drake onto his back as the bassist half-hovers over him, mouths working with exhaustion to satisfy their needs. Sweat is sliding off their bodies like drops of rain and it smells thick and heavy in the room, but they don't mind it. They simply let their hands roam as they kiss, thinking of nothing else but this.

_Put your hands, all over  
Put your hands all over me_


	6. These Tables Are Numbered, PATD

**43. There's A Good Reason These Tables Are Numbered – Panic! At The Disco**

_[Please leave all overcoats, canes and top hats with the doorman]_

Winding and weaving through the crowds of people, Drake's eyes darted back and forth to find the six foot two build of muscle and glitter that was his boyfriend. On any normal circumstance, Adam would've been easy to pick out in an instant, between his height, the usually crowd of people that surrounded him, the fact that his laughter had the effect of creating silence so everyone could hear its rippling beauty…

And even still, with the madness of the art gala that Adam had decided to drag Drake last minute to, the brunette couldn't pick out his boyfriend from the masses of other tall, dark haired and extremely beautiful people. It was frustrating really. He wasn't that short, and Adam was like the target of a constant spot light, so this shouldn't have been taking him nearly as long as it had been. And yet.

_[From that moment you'll be out of place and underdressed]_

Frowning deeply, Drake made a one-eighty turn to start heading back towards the buffet table where Adam had left him last, over an hour ago. His feet were hurting, his suit was uncomfortably hot, and he really just wanted to go home and relax. Sure, Drake liked the art that the gala presented, but it was all too clean cut, too pristine and perfect. Whereas Drake like abstract art with metallic colors and smears, this was all too… Too classical. Like instrumental music, where he preferred the jazz-y swag he grew up listening to in New Orleans.

Sighing softly, Drake stopped at the table, lifting a cheap, plastic champagne-looking glass filled with equally cheap champagne. In truth, this wasn't so much a gala as it was an interpretation of one with the ninety-nine cent store giveaways for New Years. There were balloons to go with the theme of sensuality, rich reds and deep purples all flittering around the complex of silver and black. There were drapes to frame art pieces that looked like someone had taken God awful cheap-motel sheets and dyed them the proper colors to make everything look snazzy and pretty.

This is what it means to be an artist, Drake thought to himself, sipping on his champagne. You get a little money and a little fame and you're still scrapping and keeping to your frugal tendencies because you can't afford the good stuff.

_[I'm wrecking this evening already and loving every minute of it]_

Turning on his heel, Drake sipped casually at his champagne, looking across the open floor of the gala, trying in vain to find the mane of gelled-to-perfection black hair. If he could find the hair, he could find Adam. And if he could find Adam, he could get the hell out of here and actually enjoy his Friday night. But no, because Adam was nowhere to be found.

People came up to Drake and asked him questions about his art, what he thought of the gala, how were he and Adam doing, all that jazz. He answered honestly about his art, lied about the gala and spoke a half-honest truth when it came to Adam. He said he and Adam were going fine. And he thought to himself, We'd be even better if I could find his glittery ass, but he didn't voice it aloud. No need for people to start asking about what he wanted to do tonight instead of being here.

_[Ruining this banquet for the mildly inspiring and—]_

"Have you seen Adam anywhere?" Drake felt like he was constantly repeating those words, that question, with the desperate need to just get the fuck out already. And that desperate need grew into desperate irritation whenever someone shook their head and apologized with a not-so-sincerely-apologetic look on their face before they tramped off to get wasted off shitty champagne and jello-shots.

Gradually becoming miserable and abandoned by the second, Drake leaned against the wall next to a curtain of sensual purple that was still reeking of dye and fabric softener, with the jacket of his suit left open to expose his un-tucked white shirt and the plastic champagne glass still in hand. His heart felt heavy and his body expressed his lack of interest in being here and when his eyes fell upon Adam caught in what looked like a sweet, chaste lip-lock with some twink, Drake nearly lost it.

_[When you're in black slacks with accentuating off-white pinstripes]_

"Whoa-oh!" Someone shouted as the cameras flashed, catching the glitter, the eyeliner, the light gloss on Adam's lips which were still glued to the twink's. The way the black and grey suit with the gold tie clung perfectly to Adam's form and the fact that Drake was standing, enraged, twenty feet away though out of line from the cameras. His hand trembled around the plastic glass, tightening more and more to the point that he was sure if someone muttered a word to him, he would break it in his palm.

Drake watched with beady eyes that had turned coal black with a mix of jealousy and hurt, as well as a strange hint of desire, as Adam and the blond with the tanned pretty face pulled away, grinning and laughing like they were the best of friends as the cameras snapped picture after picture after fucking picture. And the second that Adam's eyes washed over the room and landed on Drake's face, he twitched, breaking the champagne glass made of cheap, shining plastic in his hand.

_[Everything goes according to plan]_

In a moment, Adam was at Drake's side, pulling the shards of plastic that were still clenched in his palm out, tenderly making sure that Drake wasn't harmed in anyway. Not that Drake was really paying attention, honestly. He wasn't even looking at Adam. He glared down at the floor, his jaw set into a clenched frown as Adam ushered him away from the main room of the gala. Words were being whispered into his ear with the underlying of a hushed, concerned and apologetic tone, but Drake wasn't listening.

In the back of Drake's mind as Adam asked if he wanted to go home, Drake wanted to say no. He wanted to drag Adam back and show that blond twink that Adam belonged to him and no one else, and if he ever had the audacity to try and get up close and personal with Adam-fucking-Lambert ever again, then the blond could answer to Drake. Instead, though, Drake nodded once, deviance burning strong in his stomach.

_[I'm the new cancer, never looked better]_

Pulled by the hand from the gala, Drake followed in silence as Adam led him to the car. His mind was racing with the scene of that twink pressed up close to Adam, his lips greedily accepting the kiss that Adam was so willing to share in front of the cameras, and of all of the possible ways that he could claim Adam in front of that boy and show him that Adam Lambert was not free and open to anyone who simply waltzed up to him and wanted a fucking kiss.

Adam kept mumbling apology after apology to Drake, but it fell on deaf ears. Was Drake mad at Adam? Sort of. He was only mad that Adam had abandoned him for an hour with nothing do to only to be found kissing some other guy in front of cameras and people. But at the same time, he had to be a little grateful. It wasn't like he found Adam kissing that boy where there were no cameras or people. It wasn't like it was in shrouded darkness, wanting to be unseen.

_[You can't stand it, cause you say so under your breath]_

If anything, Drake was beyond pissed at the twink. Who was he to walk up to Adam and want a kiss when, Drake was certain, that everyone knew Adam was taken? That he was _happily_ taken and in love? Who was that boy to think that he could take whatever he wanted and not suffer any goddamn consequences? Because if Drake had his way, he'd tell Adam to turn the fuck around and go back.

But as he opened his mouth a little, a thought came to mind. Why would he have to prove to that stupid boy that Adam was his and that he was Adam's? Why prove it to dozens of cameras and hundreds of gala-goers when he could prove it to the one man that the matter concerned the most? Why prove it to a stranger when he could remind Adam that he was in charge? That he was the one calling the shots and that Adam was his bitch?

_[You're reading lips, "When did he get all confident?"]_

The idea began to infect Drake's thoughts and all he could think, instead of the stupid boy, was pushing Adam to his knees, forcing his boyfriend to swallow his dick whole and suck him until he screamed, of nestling between Adam's thighs and slamming into him over and over until Adam's beautiful body arched into the perfect pleasured bend with his throat stretched, exposed, and waiting to be marked.

With Adam's hand on his thigh and Adam's voice filling the air of the car with soft apologies and promises that it was nothing, absolutely nothing, I swear I love you, always and the repeated oh, God, Drake, I'm so sorry, Drake's eyes slipped shut as he stewed himself in the lust of his fantasies, chewing on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from moaning out loud.

_[Haven't you heard that I'm the new cancer?]_

The drive felt like a blur because Adam was a broken record and his hand was comforting and warm on Drake's thigh. Drake had it all planned in his head. He was going to make Adam think that he was made and wait for Adam to say fated words that sounded like I'll do anything to make it up to you and then— then, right at that moment, Drake would have him. He'd have him by the hair, by the balls and by the heartstrings until he was through.

But the funny thing about Drake was that he would never be through with Adam. He would drive the glam singer crazy tonight and probably many nights to follow after this one, but after all of this he would still hold Adam's heartstrings and pluck them like a ballad until the day they died.

_[I've never looked better and you can't stand it]_

Adam pulled up to their condo, parking in their spot just under the metal cover to keep off the rain. Drake had only just unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for the door handle when the door flew open, Adam standing by Drake's side with his hand extended. Drake wanted to take it and pull himself into Adam's arms for a kiss, and he wanted to ignore it and get out on his own.

He took Adam's hand, but did not kiss him. Drake didn't even look at him as Adam shut the passenger door and walked behind him to the front entry way of their condo. The tension in his shoulders was not that of anger but that of holding back his sexual frustrations, which wanted nothing more than to release themselves upon Adam and devour him in the hottest sex it could muster.

_[Next is a trip to the, the ladies room in vain]_

Drake watched Adam's hand, curled around their key, unlock the front door and turn the knob, pushing it open. Following in the silence that he had not broken since seeing Drake and that blond at the gala, Drake kept his head down as he shrugged out of his jacket and tie, leaving them on the back of one of the dining room chairs. Adam shut the door and crossed to him, resting his hands on his hips as he pressed a kiss to Drake's ear.

"I'm so sorry… It was just for show, baby. Like what me and Tommy do on stage for Glam Nation and everything. It's nothing, I promise," Adam murmured weakly, kissing Drake's temple, "Please, Drake, please forgive me. I'll make it up to you, I swear. Anything you want, baby, and it's yours. _I'm yours_," Adam said, and Drake froze, lifting his gaze across the dining room that was just off from the kitchen near the front door, staring into the mirror that rested on the wall. His normal blue eyes were blown dark from lust and need and when Adam looked up as well, he went rigid, staring into Drake's eyes.

_[And I bet you just can't keep up with these fashionistas]_

"Anything?" Drake repeated in suggestion, and he heard Adam swallow behind him, watching his lover's reflection nod slow and slight, almost tentatively for a moment before Adam opened his mouth.

"Yes. Anything." Drake smirked.

_[And tonight, tonight, you are, you are a whispering campaign]_

Reaching back, Drake grabbed Adam's golden tie, pulling him by that and that alone away from the dining room and down through the living room, into the hall and to the left down towards their bedroom. Adam groaned softy as Drake tugged on it, dragging him through the door before reaching behind to press a palm to Adam's back, shoving him forward towards the bed. Adam stumbled but did not fall as he turned to face Drake, who slammed the door shut and kept the lights off.

"Baby?" Adam whispered, but Drake merely stalked forward in the darkness, pulling Adam's tie free before tossing it to the floor. He pressed his hands to Adam's chest, shoving him up against one of the four posts of the bed. Adam whimpered quietly as Drake made quick work, stripping his jacket and his shirt, and when Adam reached up to start undoing Drake's shirt, the brunette slapped his hands away and brought a knee up to Adam's groin, nudging him not too rough but none too gently, either.

_[I bet, to them, your name is Cheap]_

Gasping and moaning at the same time, Adam curled forward a little, his face twisted into shock and ecstasy as Drake snaked his fingers into Adam's hair, pulling the singer's head back. Adam cried out, arching a little as Drake pressed a filthy kiss to his neck, nipping into the flesh to leave a tiny mark. His hands were shaking as they held Adam's hair and began to undo his dress pants. He nipped a spot just below Adam's left ear, earning a shudder and a low growl as he reached into the front of Adam's pants, grabbing hold of his dick so tightly Adam's body twitched and went rigid, his eyes showing white as they rolled into the back of his head.

"God, baby…" Adam groaned, thrusting once into Drake's hand before the brunette artist dug his nails into the pulsing erection, and Adam cried out more in pain than in pleasure.

_[I bet, to them, you look like shhh—]_

"On your knees, bitch," Drake hissed, dominance washing through his blood thicker than the desire that coiled itself around the base of his spine. Adam's eyes flamed with several things that sent shivers rushing through Drake's body, but the singer obeyed, changing places with Drake so that he would kneel as Drake leaned upon the post of the bed, the thick iron pole cold through his shirt.

Drake reached forward, caressing Adam's cheek before slapping the skin, and Adam cried out, shivering in front of him. "Undress me," Drake snarled, threading fingers into Adam's hair to hold him in place. Adam groaned softly, reaching up slowly to pop the buttons of Drake's dress pants loose, tugging gently on the material until they slid from his hips and gathered around his thighs, freeing the source of Drake's dominating madness.

_[Talk to the mirror, oh! choke back tears]_

Moaning, Adam breathed along Drake's dick, "Baby," he murmured, pressing a heavy wet kiss to the head. Arching, Drake's mouth opened in a long, airy moan.

"Suck me. Now."

_[And keep telling yourself "I'm a diva!"]_

Drake had felt the heat of lips around his dick before. He knew what it meant to slam hard into the tight ring of Adam's ass, and he knew what it meant to have Adam slam into him. But there was something erotic about the way Adam parted his lips and wrapped them around Drake's erection, his cheeks hollowing inward as he sucked. Drake felt his legs go boneless and he leaned heavily against the post, tightening his grip in Adam's hair as a stuttered groan fell of his tongue.

His hips twitched and he thrust into Adam's mouth, bumping against the back of his throat. Adam moaned around him, his pearly white teeth gently scraping along Drake's erection and the brunette felt his knees shake as he pulled roughly on Adam's hair.

_[Oh, and the smokes in that cigarette box]_

"Fuck, Adam.." Drake groaned as Adam's cheeks hollowed again, sucking on him even harder than before. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he gasped softly, pulling on Adam's hair to tug the singer off of his dick. Adam whined softly, his lips red and swollen, glazed with Drake's precome. Drake reached down with a free hand, trailing his fingertips along Adam's lips.

"So beautiful.. Lips so swollen like this. Maybe I should fuck your mouth more often before you go on stage. I'll make everyone jealous because I get to fuck with you every day…" He smirked, pulling Adam up to his feet by his hair.

_[On the table, they just so happen to be laced—]_

"Fucking hell, baby!" Adam whined as Drake turned him around, shoving him down onto the mattress, bending him forward so that his chest was flat against the sheets and his feet sliding across the floor. Drake smirked, holding Adam down until he'd calmed enough to stay put before kicking his pants off entirely, peeling his shirt away.

"I was thinking.. as you kissed that boy back at the gala… how I wanted to just pull you back into that room and make an example in front of that twink how you belonged to me…" Drake hissed, spreading Adam's cheeks, breathing hot between them. The singer groaned, grinding into the sheets as Drake licked at a small curve of Adam's perfect ass. A rush of excitement ran through his being and he moaned quietly, nipping at the soft flesh of Adam's thigh.

_[— With nitroglycerine]_

"And then I realized.. I didn't need to make an example of the boy.." Drake mused, licking his palm to slick himself up. Adam whined into the sheets, his large frame trembling like a vibrating mass. Drake smirked, leaving a soft kiss to Adam's lower back, lining himself up with his hands splayed wide, gripping Adam's hips.

"I needed to make an example of _you_," he admitted, slamming hard into Adam, stretching him wide and nailing that pleasurable spot.

_[I'm the new cancer, never looked better]_

Adam arched off the bed, screaming out as Drake nailed into him repeatedly, his nails dragging down the freckled spread of Adam's shoulders and back, creating thin, long red welts of pulsing, adrenaline-laced blood. Adam cried out, hoarse and rabid as Drake's hips slammed into his backside over and over and over and over again until Adam was all but open and willing and pushing back on him for more.

"_My _Adam… _My _little glam rock _whore_…" Drake moaned, sliding a hand beneath Adam's body, gripping his dick and lifting him off of the bed and onto all fours, sliding deeper and deeper, pounding harder and harder.

_[And you can't stand it, because you say so under your breath]_

"Drake!" Adam roared, his voice cracking with pleasure. Drake gritted his teeth, baring them in the darkness as he clenched his jaw, moaning and growling like an animal, clawing into Adam's thigh with one hand and pumping him hard with the other, fucking him as raw and hard as possible.

"Drake, goddamnit, please! Please, more, more, mo—aaahh!"

_[You're reading lips, "When did he get all confident?"]_

"Filthy little bitch, aren't you?" Drake pushed Adam forward a little, kneeling on the bed to more comfortably drive himself into the singer. Adam shook like a leaf in a stiff wind, moaning and dripping with sweat, his hands clawing at the soaked sheets.

"B-baby, baby! Aah!" Adam cried out, arching deeply.

_[Haven't you heard that I'm the new cancer?]_

"D-Drake, I'm go'n… I'm.. I'm gonna— fuck!"

"I know, baby.. me too, I know.."

_[Never looked better and you can't stand it!]_

Adam groaned, dragging out Drake's name before the brunette slammed one final time into the singer, and Adam went rigid, coming hot and hard all over the sheets. Even some on himself before collapsing as Drake released into him, pulling the artist down over him. Moaning, Drake pressed a kiss to Adam's clawed back, shaking with pleasure and burning with sweat.

Breathless and speechless, Adam involuntarily twitched, tightening some around Drake, forcing another moan from the brunette.

_[And I know it just doesn't feel like a night out]_

In the darkness of the bedroom, the only sounds were that of ragged breaths, panting in and out as Drake managed to pull himself free of the tight warmth of Adam's body. Groaning, the singer relaxed some, staying on his stomach with his face turned to his right as Drake crawled up along his side, flopping down beside him in exhaustion.

"Are you alright?" Drake asked, the sudden worry that he might've seriously hurt Adam gripping his heart momentarily, before easing into relief when Adam nodded his head weakly.

_[With no one sizing you up]_

"God-fucking-damnit you're incredible…" Adam moaned, turning enough so that he rested on his side, come smeared across his chest from where he released as he reached for Drake, pulling the smaller man into his arms, holding him close. Drake blushed faintly, the aura of innocence masking over the dominance that had been present not two minutes before.

"I try, baby. I do try," he admitted, smiling softly as he pressed a kiss to Adam's sweat and come slicked check, licking at the taste. Adam groaned, tightening his arms around Drake.

_[I've never been so surreptitious, so, of course—]_

"Maybe I should top you next time… Let you relearn your place in our bedroom, no?" Adam suggested under a low growl, smirking in the darkness down at Drake.

Smirking back, Drake dropped a hand, caressing Adam's limp, sensitive dick tenderly, pulling a startled and strangled gasp from Adam's throat. Lust flashed over his eyes as Drake leaned in close, whispering under a hot breath into Adam's pierced ear, "Maybe you should learn not to kiss other pretty boys in front of me anymore. And maybe you should realize who wears the dress and heels in this relationship, my pretty, pretty glam-rock princess."

_[You'll be distracted when I spike the punch!]_


End file.
